La Poésie de la Lune
by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica
Summary: I never understood exactly what that word meant. Beauty. What was it that made someone beautiful? Full lips, wide eyes, sloping cheekbones, flawless figure? But how did someone define flawless? How did they rank someone on a scale of one to ten based not on their mind, not in the beauty embedded in their veins, but in their skin? (Now an ongoing series!)
1. Winter

**A/N: Just a little poem I wrote on Winter. Because of stupid formatting, I had to put a little three-pound (###) thing between stanzas in order to keep the line breaks. Anyway, I hope you like it, and please review to let me know your thoughts!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Lunar Chronicles. Unfortunately, I am not Marissa Meyer.**

* * *

Winter

My mother named me

after the season

of death

and beauty.

###

I never understood exactly

what that word meant.

 _Beauty._

What was it that made

someone beautiful?

Full lips, wide eyes,

sloping cheekbones,

flawless figure?

But how

did someone define

 _flawless?_ How

did they rank someone

on a scale of one to ten based

not on their mind, not

in the beauty embedded

in their veins, but in

their skin?

###

Snakes could shed

their skin. I'd had one

as a little girl, kept it

in a terrarium made

of thick-paned glass.

Once, I'd dipped

my hand inside,

attempting to wind

the elusive creature

around my wrist, coil

it around my fingers,

feel the cool scales press

against my thrumming veins.

But instead, I'd felt something

like plastic, crinkling beneath

my fingertips, like

a Hershey bar wrapper

or a Ziploc bag.

I'd pulled it out, gazed

at the translucent skin, traced

the imprints of scales still imprinted

in the discarded waste.

###

And then

I'd wrapped that

around my wrist, too,

used the snake's skin

as a bracelet

until my stepmother

ripped it off.

###

 _They'll call you_

 _crazy,_ she hissed.

###

 _Let them,_ I thought.

 _I am crazy._

###

Humans, I'd learned,

could shed skin just

like snakes. Dust

was almost entirely composed

of human skin. Sometimes,

I'd dive underneath my bed

and collect globs

of the stuff, put it

in jars and line them up

on my windowsill. In late

afternoon, when the sun hit them

at just the right angle,

the sunlight shimmered

a smoky gray, ashes

in a fireplace.

###

Skin was what made

a person beautiful, but

it dripped off us

every day, like honey slipping

from a silver spoon.

We oozed and leaked it,

and the skin built up

beneath our beds,

on our pillows,

in the jars on our windowsills,

until we were no longer beautiful

at all.

###

Some people called it

aging. I called it

shedding skin.

###

People thought I was

beautiful. They looked at me,

compared me to others

standing around, and called me

wondrous, a heavenly angel,

applauded my figure and my face.

Their eyes traced

the contours of my body,

of my cheeks,

searched my eyes

and found perfection.

I smiled politely and thanked them,

because that is what you do

when someone calls you beautiful,

when someone finds you perfect,

even if you have no clue

what either one

means.

###

I wished they could see

my mind, see that it was not

beautiful at all, but broken,

shriveled up. I wished they could see

my thoughts, jumbled

and discombobulated,

tossed

into complete and utter disarray.

I wished they could see

how very little sanity

I had left.

###

But they couldn't,

and so

I was lovely still.

###

My skin was beautiful, but

my mind was dying.

My mother never met me,

but she was right on target,

for like the winter,

I am stunning and still.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	2. Red

**A/N: So I got favorable reviews for the last poem I wrote (thanks so much! You guys are the best!) and because these poems take me, like, fifteen minutes at most, I think I'm going to make this a series of poems, all Lunar-Chronicles-themed. Anyway, thanks again to reviewers, and keep up the feedback! (God knows I could use it!)**

* * *

 **Red.**

My favorite color is red because it is a powerful color,

one that requests—demands—attention and notice.

###

Red is a dangerous color, the color of anger, the color of blood.

###

They say that in the first world war, so many years ago,

they would sprinkle bits of lime over the mass graves

of dead soldiers to disguise the smell of decomposing bodies,

of sadness, and the only thing that grew after the lime

had been sown, were poppies, bright red, vermilion

and crimson and scarlet, just like my name.

###

Despair was sown where the red poppies grow.

###

My mother named me Scarlet, my hair is bright red,

I am a power color, I am a thunderhead,

I am stronger than I look, and a spitfire to boot,

so when you look at me, size me up, from the tips

of my bright red curls, to my bright red cheeks,

to my bright red spirit tucked into the folds

of my rapidly beating heart, do not make the mistake

of underestimating me, my worth, who I am.

###

Because I am despair, and anger, and blood.

###

I am fearless.

###

I am

###

Red.


	3. The Queen That Loved and Laughed

**A/N: So, I'm thinking I'm going to do one of these every day. They're quick, and it's good, because it's been months since I wrote any poetry (for fun, anyway). Anyhow, this one is from the viewpoint of the infamous Queen Channary, the queen who never stopped laughing. (Doesn't that sound ominous?)**

 **Also, the formatting on this website sucks for poetry. If there was more freedom, I'd probably be doing more with shape and stuff, but there's not. If there are any tech-savvy gurus who have any way of addressing that problem, PLEASE DO. As Rita Dove said: Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. Pretentious and cheesy, I know, but the FORMATTING IS SUCKING MY INSPIRATIONAL SOUL. (I'm super melodramatic today. Ignore my histrionics. I go to an arts school, so melodrama kind of comes with the package.)**

* * *

 **The Queen that Loved and Laughed**

 **I.**

I never set out to be cruel.

###

 **II.**

I hear the things they whisper about me,

in back hallways and servants' quarters,

hidden by curtains of lace and lies,

in the arms of their lover

just before they fall

asleep.

###

I know everything they say

about me, about Queen Channary,

better even than the back

of my own hand.

##

 **III.**

I grew up in a world

of lies.

In Artemisia, children learn to lie

before they learn to tell

the truth.

###

 **IV.**

When I was eight years old, my mother knelt down before me,

skirts pooled around her on the glossy, gleaming marble floors.

She took her thumb and traced the contour of my cheek,

eyes unwavering from mine, violet irises flinty and cruel.

###

 **V.**

 _Listen to me._

 _Channary, are you_

 _listening?_

###

 _Yes, Mother._

 _###_

 _There are those_

 _who will try_

 _to use you_

 _in this world,_

 _my darling._

 _You were born_

 _into power,_

 _by blood_

 _and ability._

 _There are those_

 _who will try_

 _to take that away_

 _from you._

###

Taps

my temple.

Strokes

my brow

with claw-like

nails sharp

as daggers.

###

I blink.

Force myself

to remain

calm.

Stone.

Impervious.

Rule

number-one

of survival:

 _Show_

 _no weakness._

###

Swallow.

Try to

breathe.

###

 _Listen to me,_

 _Channary Blackburn,_

 _and listen close:_

 _stop_

 _at_

 _nothing._

###

 **VI.**

My mother reached one elegant hand down her bodice

and pulled out a gleaming knife, silver and sharp.

Grabbed my wrist, and I did not scream, because to scream

would be to show weakness, to show defeat.

Carved a _Q_ for queen.

Made sure I would never forget.

###

 **VII.**

That was the day I learned how

to be ruthless, how to be cruel,

how to be feared, how to become

a bedtime story of monsters and demons,

of who will come to visit

when little girls and boys

refuse to take their medicine

or go to sleep at night.

###

I may glamour that _Q,_ make it disappear

from my burnt-sugar skin,

but when I go to bed at night,

when I slip under the covers,

I know it is there.

I trace it with my thumb,

feel the ridges of the scar.

 _Permanent._

###

 **VIII.**

they say I am cruel,

they say I am insane,

they say I am the queen

that never cared a whit

for anything but parties

and dresses, boys

and long, hazy afternoons

spent entangled in cottony

sheets

###

they say I never stop

laughing

###

they say I have never loved

anything

or

anyone.

###

 **IX.**

But they are wrong.

I have loved.

I have lost my mind.

I have lost my kindness.

I have lost my empathy.

I have lost my desire

for anything other

than materialistic items

that I can feel slipping

through my fingers

like grains of sand

through the belly

of an hourglass.

I have lost all interest for anything

that cannot make me forget,

just for a few, blessed seconds,

how very cursed I am.

###

But I have loved.

Not many times.

Just twice.

###

I have never loved

my mother,

my father,

my sister.

###

 **X.**

But I did love the boy

with the brown-sugar eyes,

the one that flashed me a smile,

coaxed me into his bed,

not the other way around, for once,

and the girl with tiny hands,

so small and so helpless,

so full of love

for me.

###

 **XI.**

And as I lay here in bed, my hacking coughs

Clawing up my throat, my pillows spattered

With crimson blood, death pressing down on me,

Suffocating me, I clasp my hands together

Like a locket of tarnished silver

And pray.

###

 **XII.**

Not for me.

For my daughter.

###

 **XIII.**

And on those rare occasions

when I do pray for myself,

I pray for death, not for life,

because this world is not for me,

not anymore, if it ever was.

###

I had love, held it in my hands,

fragile and frail as a baby blackbird,

and lost it forever.

###

And because I was scared, because

I was terrified out of my wits,

###

 **XIV.**

I lost

It.

###

I lost

Him.

###

 **XV.**

I loved once.

###

 **XVI.**

Whatever else you may say about the queen that never stopped laughing, you cannot say that she never had a great love.


	4. 19 Ways

**A/N: I'm back!** **I changed the title to be La Poésie de la Lune, which is French for The Poetry of the Moon. (Sounds better in French. I figured I should give it a broader title, since there's more than just Winter in this poetry-series now. Anyway, h** **ere's a Kaider poem, list-style. Thanks to all previous reviewers, and please review again! You guys are awesome!**

* * *

19 Ways

1\. I love the way you flex your jaw when you get frustrated, stooped, stumped.

2\. I love the way your copper eyes crinkle when you smile.

3\. I love the way you spoke to me the first time that we met: _I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was back there._

4\. I love the way you look at me when you think that I'm not looking.

5\. I love the way you look at me when you know that I'm looking.

6\. I love your stupid corny jokes, sass and sarcasm (just like me).

7\. I love the way you kiss when you're sober: soft and sweet and silky, tasting of caramel and bliss.

8\. I love the way you kiss when you're drunk: tasting of Scotch, first of burnt cork, then of leather.

9\. I love the way you hold me when we're both fast asleep: arms knotted round my neck, breath cool on my cheek.

10\. I love the way you walk, hands stuffed in your pockets and slumped, like you're trying to make yourself smaller, invisible, even though you're anything but.

11\. I love the way you talk to me when we're curled up in your bed: throaty, low, too gentle to be growling, too earnest to be dulcet.

12\. I love the way you pull me close and kiss my temple when I'm worried, lips brushing against my skin, and instant-fix, even though I can never quite get enough.

13\. I love the way you talk about me when I'm not there, like I'm an angel, flawless, perfect, esteemed in every way, though I'm nothing of the sort.

14\. I love the way you're denying that last statement right this minute, turning to me, saying I'm every one of those things, and more.

15\. I love the way you smile: slightly lopsided, slightly crooked, slightly uneven, entirely perfect.

16\. I love the way you say my name: breathy and lilted, hard on the _r_ , soft on the slinky _c,_ pale on the _i:_ Cinder.

17\. I love the way you say _I love you._

18\. I love you too, Kai.

19\. Forever and always.


	5. I Thought

**A/N: I'm back with today's poem, inspired by what Cinder might've remembered about her early childhood! Thanks to all reviewers, and please keep it up! You guys make my day!**

* * *

I Thought

I thought it was a dream

the shimmering lake

black and thick as crude oil

round and flat as a silver dollar

###

I thought it was a dream

the palace of lies and luxury

of façades and falsehoods

 _nothing is real_

###

I thought it was a dream

the honey-colored face

the big brown eyes, more suited

to a calf or doe

###

I thought it was a dream

her voice, low and sweet and rough

 _shh, shh, now, shh, shh_

 _my love, my princess_

###

I thought it was a dream

my hand, tiny fist, reaching up

to grip hers tight, tighter

 _Mommy's got you now_

###

I thought it was a dream

the sickroom, dark and reeking

of vomit and blood

of anticipation, not sorrow

###

I thought it was a dream

the downcast faces, flat mouths

no one weeping, crying, mourning

but me

###

I thought it was a dream

the woman who was so beautiful

she was ugly, jarring

taking me in her arms

###

I thought it was a dream

her skin like ice

her words like daggers

 _You're mine now_

###

I thought it was a dream

the smile on her face

frozen, eerie, ethereal

 _But not for long_

###

I thought it was a dream

the tiny wax candle

the fire that followed

the heat that burned and raged for hours

###

I thought it was a dream

the scream ripping from my chest

the cries of another girl, somewhere

 _Cinder! Where are you? Cinder!_

###

I thought it was a dream

a dream of fire and ice

a dream of death and life

a dream of despair and anguish

###

I thought it was a dream

made-up, imaginary, gruesome

but as it turns out

it was a memory

###

I thought it was a dream

because I was foolish enough, naive enough

to think it was too ghastly horrific

to be real

###

I thought it was a dream

I thought it wasn't real

I thought it was a nightmare

I thought wrong

###

I wish I hadn't


	6. Dear Thorne

**A/N: Back with today's poem! Thanks again to all reviewers!**

* * *

Dear Thorne

I have loved you from the start,

long before you even knew I existed,

long before you gazed at me, eyes wide,

and said, _Aces, is that all hair?_

###

And while I know it's foolish, even stupid

to love you when you will never, can never

love me the way that I have loved you

I can't seem to stop myself, to grit my teeth

and drag myself back down to earth

where the stars and magic are not inches,

but light years, from my face

###

No, not when you look at me like that

as you do on those rare occasions:

a half-hedged smile, handsome

as a roguish, ruffian pirate

in a second-era romance novel,

wide blue eyes, swimming-pool blue,

cornflower blue, cerulean blue,

for blue is the color of sadness

###

Captain Carswell Thorne, pirate captain,

I am hopelessly, unquestionably, irrevocably

in love with you

###

And in the morning when I wake

and I remember my grave mistake

I will plaster on a cheerful smile

and force myself to laugh and sing all the while

###

But for now I leave this note at your door

in the chances you might open it

and read my letter of unrequited love

###

Maybe you'll flinch, maybe you'll swear

maybe you'll consider opening the hatch

and tossing yourself into the wide expanse

of will o' wisps and empty space

###

But maybe, just maybe, though I know

it's stupid, unrealistic, one-hundred-percent idiotic

###

Maybe you'll smile, come to my door, knock,

and I'll open it with a trembling hand

###

and you'll say, _Hello, Cress_

###

and I'll say, _Thorne?_

###

and you'll say, _I love you, too_

###

and kiss me

###

I comfort myself with fantasies

too romantic and overblown

to ever be true

###

Because that is what you do when you love someone

who will never love you

###

 _Love,_

 _Cress_


	7. For Peony

**A/N: Thanks to all reviewers! Here's the poem of the day, 'For Peony', written from Cinder's point of view. Written while listening to "Stuff We Did" from the _Up_ soundtrack (because sadist Disney needs good music to make us cry). Anyway, hope you enjoy, and please review!**

* * *

For Peony

we were not sisters by blood,

not by genes, not by strands, strings

of double-helix DNA

we did not share a mother, or a father

but we did share every day

###

when i first emerged, hazy-eyed

from the endless dreams i'd dreamt

you were the only one that loved me

the only one that cared

not for the invisible crown atop my head

but for me, titanium parts and all,

my mechanical heart, beating like a clock

 _tick tick tick tick tick_

###

you did not punish me

for my aberrations, hold me at fault

for my many rusty flaws

you did not call me names

behind my back or to my face

###

instead, you took my hand, smiled brightly,

so bright you eclipsed the sun,

and accepted me, steel and wires and all

without another word, without question

as if it was what you intended to do

all along

###

i wanted to be there for you

when you needed me most

i wanted to be there for you

haul you up into my arms

and hold you close

while you coughed up blood

and stars knew what else

###

i wanted to save you

like you saved me

but i was too late

too slow

###

now i live in a palace of silver and gold

and live the life you only ever dared to dream

and all i have to remember you by

is a pot of pink peonies on my terrace

a vase on my dressing table

a single blossomy head tucked beneath my pillow

sunburst orange and faded pink, flush with spring

###

in the language of flowers, peonies mean

many things: riches, honor, romance, prosperity

an omen of good luck for marriage

a pretty flower to tuck behind your ear

###

but to me, in my secret language, the one

that is not made up of words, but heartbeats

peonies mean only the sister

with the laughing eyes

who wanted only to wear a silver dress

and dance, just once, with a prince

###

they mean only the sister,

the one related not by blood, by DNA

but by what lays in my heart,

the human part, love

###

they mean only the sister

i was not able to save

###

i'm sorry

so sorry

###

my peony

###

why did you have to leave

###

if only you could see me now

standing face-to-face

instead of looking down

from the stars above


	8. Hypocrite

**A/N: Here's the poem of the day! For anyone that's wondering, there are going to be 15 poems in this series (like a mini-anthology). This is poem #8, titled 'Hypocrite'. Not my best, but I figured I should do a Dr. Erland one eventually. Anyway, thanks again to all reviewers, and I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the lullaby. That's the official crescent moon lullaby, not mine.**

* * *

Hypocrite

I am a hypocrite.

###

People do not feel pity for hypocrites.

Instead, they turn up their noses,

send dirty glances from beneath half-lidded eyes,

whisper behind cupped palms, tones low and deadly,

malicious.

###

I am no different, I won't pretend that I am.

I won't make my case. Don't feel pity for me.

I don't deserve it.

###

I am a hypocrite.

###

I have killed so many people that the world

has lost track. I have ruined so many lives

that there is no punishment harsh or cruel enough

to exact justice. Because, as it turns out,

justice is a funny thing. Just because someone deserves it

doesn't mean

that they will receive it.

###

I had a wife once…

###

I had a child once…

###

Too many lost lives and mistakes ago…

###

I was rich and prosperous, a miracle doctor,

but I did not save lives, I ended them.

In the second era, doctors used to pledge

a Hippocratic oath: _First do no harm._

I have broken that oath so many times,

smashed it to bits with a blunt hammer,

again and again and again and again.

###

I do not heal, I harm. Harming is what I do.

###

Because I was an attack dog with a scalpel

and a syringe, stuck in a glorified collar

that looked like a bright white lab coat.

###

Maybe if I weren't so good at killing,

maybe if I weren't so good at ruining,

maybe if I weren't so good at harming,

###

the collar would have gone

away.

###

But I was good at killing, at ruining, and harming.

And so the queen with the too-pretty face

wrapped a collar round my neck and whispered

in her too pretty voice: _Serve me._

###

I did not protest. I took my syringe and my scalpel

and went to work, sowing the seeds of death.

And until I had my daughter, until I held

her tiny, fragile body in my hands, I didn't realize

how wrong I was, how twisted I was, how blackened

my heart and bruised my soul.

###

I begged her, the queen, my wife, but their hearts

were too blackened to see the truth. My hypocrisy

lifted the black on my heart, the haze over my vision.

###

But it was too late. I lost her. Crescent Moon.

###

It was the only punishment harsh enough, cruel enough

to come close to giving me the justice I deserved.

###

Her song rings in my head:

###

 _Sweet Crescent Moon, up in the sky,_

 _won't you sing your song to Earth_

 _as she passes by? Your sweetest silver_

 _melody, a rhythm and a rhyme,_

 _a lullaby of pleasant dreams_

 _as you make your climb._

 _Send the forests off to bed,_

 _the mountains tuck in tight,_

 _rock the ocean gently,_

 _and the deserts kiss goodnight._

 _Sweet Crescent Moon, up in the sky,_

 _you sing your song so sweetly_

 _after sunshine passes by._

###

I am a hypocrite.

I have gotten what I deserved.

###

So don't feel pity for me, at what I have lost.

###

I have caused others to lose more than I.


	9. When the Sun Goes Down

When the Sun Goes Down

when the sun goes down,

sinks below the horizon

bathing the cornfields,

the bright red barns,

in clementine sunshine

that smells of navel oranges

and you come inside,

face dirtied, moist

with sweat and perspiration

and I am sitting

at the kitchen table,

hands calloused

from milking cows,

from planting seeds,

from coaxing stubborn sprouts

from the stubborn soil,

dicing tomatoes, _chop chop,_

to make a beef stew,

and you pop one in your mouth,

smile wide, canines pointed,

and say, _Scarlet,_

wrap your arms around me,

kiss the top of my head,

and I am yours,

have always been yours,

this is the life even dreamers

dare not to dream

###

there are a thousand reasons

why I love you

but none so potent

as when the sun goes down

and you come into the farmhouse

in your muddy work boots,

hair sweat-soaked and mussed

and kiss me, sealing

the life I never dared to hope for

to dream for

###

you have made me a dreamer,

Ze'ev Kesley, and I will never,

can never, show you just

how grateful I am


End file.
